


A Reverie Endeavor

by xiabap



Category: Danganronpa, SDR2, goodbye despair - Fandom
Genre: Knives, M/M, Self destructive thoughts, aichmomania
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-29
Updated: 2020-05-29
Packaged: 2021-03-02 20:27:40
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,245
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24442831
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/xiabap/pseuds/xiabap
Summary: In which Nagito is an aichmomaniac. (Oneshot)
Relationships: Nagito Komaeda/Hajime Hinata
Comments: 2
Kudos: 58





	A Reverie Endeavor

**Author's Note:**

> This fic involves lots of self-harm mention, as well as suicidal thoughts/behavior. Stay safe!   
> There won't be anything more to this story, I just thought it would be interesting to expand on this headcanon. The title is from Dream Sweet in Sea Major by ミラクルミュージカル (Miracle Musical). Thanks for reading!

I gently flick the light switch off and walk over to the table I’ve positioned next to my bed. Three candles rest on it, along with a small box of matches and an assortment of sentiments I’ve been gifted by my remarkable fellow students. Each relic is a small symbol of the hope they have in me, and the collection serves as a reminder of my duty not to let them down. I pick up the matchbox, which is half empty at this point, and light the first candle. Perhaps by a stroke of bad luck, or perhaps by my holding the match tip-down, I burn the tip of my index finger. The burn is light but still causes me to recoil, nearly dropping the firey match onto the hardwood floor. I fling the flame into a glass of water next to the television and turn back to the table.  
I fish through a small heap of long-since-burnt matches and grab one with a particularly lengthy unused side. I dip the wooden end into the flame, a trick I picked up some years ago, and use it to light the other two candles.  
Having done this, I turn my attention to another section of the short table. Near the corner, somewhat isolated, lays a medium-sized switchblade. The knife was a gift from Hajime, something he thought I may have some use for, although I’m still not sure why he trusts me enough to give me such power. Maybe it’s just that, a silent acknowledgment that I wouldn’t try to hurt him. I laugh to myself. How could he, a living testimony to hope itself, so much as think to bestow a shard of that pure love unto trash like me? I’ll never understand him, hard as I may try.  
I pick up the knife and run my fingers along the textured handle. Although I push as hard as I can on the small lever, the knife takes a few seconds to pop open. The sudden motion and accompanying sound send a sharp shock through my body. I’ll never get used to such a strong spring assist. The blade is an oil-slick kind of rainbow and reflects the candlelight nicely.  
I sit cross-legged on my bed and breathe in the wooden scent of the candles. Clutching the knife in front of me, I run my left finger along the blade, just light enough not to draw blood.  
I shake off my jacket and lay the side of the knife against my bony wrist, which is difficult not to see as a blank canvas. The cool of the blade feels nice against my skin, especially considering the heat radiating from the candles which has so quickly filled the room. I faintly drag the blade’s edge along my arm, tracing my blue veins.  
Deep as my bloodlust may be, I can’t bring myself to press harder. I know the consequences, I know the signal that scars along one’s wrist send. I’ve seen it before, in movies and such. The last thing I want is for Hajime- or any of the others, for that matter- to waste their time worrying about someone like me.  
I would never kill myself, anyways. I’d like my suffering to end in some meaningful way, to pave the way for more hope to grow. If I can’t be of help in life, perhaps I can in death.  
I further examine the switchblade, tossing it lightly from hand to hand, feeling a pure power that one can’t help but notice when holding a blade. I’ve always had quite the affinity for knives. They present possibilities, per se. Handling power is not something I tend to take pleasure in, but I imagine that this serenity and godliness is universally relished.  
I roll up my jeans, exposing my calf. I press the edge of the blade above my ankle and am suddenly struck by a near-undeniable urge. An urge to press a bit harder, to jerk the knife backward, and to see the red seep out of my skin. I inhale deeply and lift the switchblade away from my leg.  
I bring the knife up to my face and trace down the center with the tip as if marking a line of symmetry. As I run the knife along my lips, my heart begins to race. some deep-rooted sense of arousal fills my body. My breaths become sharp and uneven as I trace the blade down my neck. While the edge tugs at my shirt collar, I feel the strong temptation to scar my chest.  
I pull my hand away again. I cant fall victim to the falsehoods my heart wails, can’t let Hajime see scabbing scratches covering my collarbones, can’t relieve myself of years of tension with a sole swift cut. I set the knife by my feet and wrap my arms around myself, searching for some unnoticeable place I could shred. Of course, I’m already aware of the effort’s futility. I’m aware that Hajime will eventually see what I try to conceal. I don’t want to hide for my sake, but for his. How could I begin to forgive myself for worrying such a pleasant and selfless boy?  
I further explore the knife, tapping my finger on its’s tip and secretly hoping to prick myself. I would give anything to see my own blood right now. At least, that’s the hyperbole I wish to tell myself. In truth, much too much is at stake for me to even scratch the surface of my hip, something I’ve done numerous times in the past.  
But that was before I had had someone to care about me, Someone who would frown if he saw me bleed. Hajime is already much too concerned about me, constantly mentioning how emaciated my thighs are, how thin my hair is, how heavy my eye bags are. I can't bring myself to become an even greater burden to him. It must be torture loving someone like me.  
I slump down onto my pillow and grip the knife above my chest, it’s point taunting my pain-ridden heart. I consider my abundant ideologies, my wish for a hopeful demise, yet I can’t help but feel the ambition to alleviate Hajime's undoubted misery. Would it not be the greatest blessing I could lend him to simply cease being?  
At that instant, I hear my doorbell ring. I frantically close the switchblade and drop it aimlessly next to the matchbox.  
“Coming!” I shout as I snuff my candles. Who could possibly have business with me this late at night? Has someone finally come to slaughter me? A bit panicked, I switch on the light and do a rapid scan around the room before opening the door.  
“Ah, Hajime!”  
“Uh, hey.”  
”What.. are you doing here? Did we have plans? Ah, you must think I’m so stupid for-“  
“No, no, nothing like that! I just got a weird feeling that I should... come check on you. So... you doin’ okay?”  
“...Yeah. I'm doing fine.”  
I inch a bit further behind the door in an attempt to hide the redness of my face.  
“Cool... Did you want me to, uh, sleep in here tonite? I know you won’t get any sleep otherwise, and Ibuki said she has something big planned for tomorrow morning. I... brought my pillow.”  
“Yeah... Yeah, that would be nice.”  
“Cool.”  
“...Cool.”  
I smile to myself, and to Hajime. Perhaps love is purer than all temptation.


End file.
